Page 76 of Within These County Lines

My pulse stutters. I whip my head toward him, and he’s watching me, waiting.

“What did he do?” His voice drops.

I swallow.

I haven’t told anyone. Not my friends. Not my family.

Because telling them means changing the way they see Murray. Right now, he still exists in their memories as something good, something hopeful. The boy I loved. The boy who, for a time, loved me back and made me the happiest person in Penango. We beat the odds. If they knew, if they saw him the way I do now, that image would disappear. I don’t want to be the reason it does.

He made a mistake. And he lost me over it. But does he need to lose other people too? Why change Murray for them? Why make him another bad example from Penango?

But Xander? He doesn’t have memories of Murray. He doesn’t carry the weight of who Murray used to be—or what we used to be. To him, Murray is already nothing.

Maybe if I say it out loud, Murray will become nothing to me too.

“Do you have time for a story?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You’re the one driving.” He licks his teeth. “I’m free for as long as the road takes us.”

I glance at the clock. 10:13 p.m.

“Okay,” I say. “Well, the last few months with him were terrible. I’m leaving Penango in the fall, or at least, I am trying to leave. He didn’t want me to and resented me for it.”

“I figured that part out.”

“Just wait. I’m not done.”

Xander drags his thumb across his lips. “Go on, then.”

The first time I really noticed Murray change, when the melody I trusted went off-key, was right after the barn party, when he singled me out in front of the football team.

I tried to make things right after that.

A couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, I planned a celebration just for us. I didn’t know how to cook, so while he was at football practice, I went to Boston Market and bought everything for dinner—roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, sweet corn, and corn bread. I let myself into his house with the spare key under the clay pot by the door, set the dining table, transferred all the food into ceramic dishes, and even lit a cinnamon-scented candle.

It was supposed to be perfect.

Murray walked in no more than ten minutes later. His cheeks were flushed from practice and his pants streaked with mud. He slung his gym bag against the wall, then rounded the corner into the dining room.

“What the—” His jaw fell slack.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” I raised my arms like I had just pulled off a magic trick.

His face softened. “Did you make all this?”

I shook my head. “I had some help.”

He laughed and plopped into his seat across from me, shoveling mac and cheese onto his plate without hesitation. “Thanksgiving isn’t for two more weeks.”

“Yeah, well, remember how you asked me to junior prom early? I thought I could be early with Thanksgiving, since you’re going to your aunt’s house in West Virginia.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I guess this is something I should get used to since you’ll be gone for the next four years.” He twirled his fork in his mashed potatoes. “You won’t come home for Thanksgiving break if you’re in Tennessee.”

My fingers tightened around my fork. “I don’t know what my plans will be.”

“I think I know.”

I rolled my eyes. He was too busy tearing through his turkey to notice.